Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

What’s the difference between a poison runner and a god?

If you pray, the poison runner might hear you.

—Overheard in an Caldienan tavern, 306 AGF

An hour into their game, Gabe had fortunately managed to refrain from hitting Bastian with a mallet. Lore had, too. However, she’d also managed to refrain from hitting the ball through the wicket.

“It’s your right arm, I think,” Alie said. She’d made Lore stand still, bent over and ready to take a whack at the black ball on the grass, so she could inspect her form. “You’re holding it too stiffly, so when you swing, you’re hitting the ball with the side of the mallet instead of the front.”

“So I should bend it?” In the past hour, Lore had discovered that while she held no real love for croquet, she especially didn’t hold any love for losing. She stuck out her elbow, taking it from straight to nearly a right angle.

“Not that much.” Alie pushed her arm in slightly. “There. Now give it a go.”

Lore did. The ball missed the nearest arch, but curved enough to inch through another.

“Finally!” She straightened, beaming, and resisted pumping the mallet over her head in victory.

Bastian, leaning on his own mallet at the edge of the playing field, gave her a gleaming grin. “Wrong wicket, dearest.”

Well, shit.

“That makes the score ten for us and four for you.” When Cecelia had first started keeping score, she’d sounded excited that she, Bastian, and Olivier were winning so handily. Now she almost sounded embarrassed.

Olivier, however, smothered a laugh in his palm. Cecelia smacked her brother’s shoulder. She really wasn’t that bad, when she wasn’t sipping belladonna tea.

Next to Lore, Gabe sighed and hefted his own mallet. It seemed he hated losing just as much as Lore did.

Alie watched him line up his shot, her lip between her teeth. Lore picked up her mallet and came to stand next to her. “Sorry I’m making you lose.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Alie waved a hand. “Last week, I beat Olivier in all three rounds we played on singles, so now he’s just trying to save face and show off for Bastian.”

Her words were light, but her eyes still tracked Gabe. Lore couldn’t quite read the other woman’s expression. It was too complicated to be longing, too soft to really be regret.

Gabe, for his part, had hardly spoken to his former betrothed beyond what was courteous. Lore had seen Alie try more than once to strike up a conversation, and while Gabe wasn’t rude, he didn’t do much more than nod. When Alie was near him, he itched at his eye patch, as if her presence reminded him it was there.

“Well,” Lore said, “maybe you and I and Gabe can have a few practice rounds before next time.”

A sunny smile broke over the other woman’s face. “That sounds lovely. And it reminds me: I sent you that tea invitation for later this week, but I wanted you to know it was a standing invite—my friends and I meet every Sixth Day, and we’d love to have you join us whenever you’re able.”

Unfamiliar warmth suffused Lore’s chest. This offer of friendship was probably more about Gabe than it was about her—the way Alie watched him made it clear she wanted to know the man her former betrothed had become—but she’d take it. She hadn’t had friends in a while.

And being friends with Alie might help her find more information about who in the court could be working with Kirythea.

“Thank you,” Lore said.

Alie took her hand and squeezed.

On the field, Cecelia took her turn—an easy point—and then sauntered over to Alie and Lore. As she walked, she pulled a thin flask from a pocket within her skirt and took a quick nip. The herbal scent of belladonna knifed at Lore’s nose.

“Where do you get that?” she asked.

She expected Cecelia’s eyes to widen, expected her to act like the caught criminal she technically was. But Cecelia just gave her a coquettish smile and took another sip. “The same place everyone here gets their poison,” she said, primly capping the flask and tucking it away. “The storage rooms where the bloodcoats put it once it’s confiscated.”

Every muscle in Lore’s body stiffened. Next to her, Alie pulled her bottom lip worriedly between her teeth.

Apparently, Cecelia didn’t notice. “I can show you where it is, if you want,” she said breezily. “It’s not hard to find—”

“Cecelia.” Though her friend didn’t notice Lore’s discomfort, Alie did. She shook her head, slightly, near-white curls ruffling.

The other woman gave a showy shrug. “Suit yourself.” She wandered over to the rest of her team, offering both Bastian and Olivier a sip of her flask. Olivier accepted, but Bastian declined, the dark glitter of his eyes arcing to Lore across the green.

The game ended quickly, with Bastian taking the winning hoop. Cecelia and Olivier excused themselves quickly, saying they had a dinner to attend. As they were leaving, Cecelia glanced over her shoulder at Lore. “If you change your mind,” she said with a wave, “let me know! We can make a party of it!”

Lore’s hand pulled into a fist at her side, hidden in the billowing lavender skirts of her gown.

Bastian walked over with his mallet swung across his shoulders, frowning after Cecelia and her brother. “What would you be changing your mind about, Lore?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She focused on releasing her fists. On taking in deep breaths and letting them out. “I won’t be changing my mind.”

He arched a dark brow. “It wouldn’t be about poison, would it?”

Lore said nothing.

“I wish she wouldn’t,” Alie said softly. She’d crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers picking anxiously at the embroidery on her sleeves. “I know she has a good reason—as much as one can—but I still wish she wouldn’t.”

“There’s no good reason to poison yourself.” Gabe stood dour and looming at the edge of the group, mallet held in his hand like a cudgel. “Intentionally altering the balance of Spiritum and Mortem within a human body goes against the Tracts.”

“There’s more to right and wrong than what’s in the Tracts, Gabe.” Alie didn’t snap, not really, but her voice had an edge in it that Lore hadn’t heard before.

Gabe noticed. Surprise flickered across his face.

“I was unaware Cecelia was partial to poisoning until the night of the masque,” Bastian said, taking hold of the conversation and steering it back in the direction he wanted.

“She just started.” Alie sighed. “And she has her reasons.”

“The high being first among them, I assume,” Bastian said drily.

“It’s not that. Or not just that, anyway.” Alie shook her head. “She’s sick. It’s not hugely aggressive, the physicians say, but enough that her life expectancy is… lessened. Cecelia started taking the belladonna in the hope it would add some years.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Now, she certainly shouldn’t be taking as much as she did the night of your masquerade, Bastian, but she’s scared.”

Angry heat raised color in Lore’s cheeks; she glanced away so none of them would see. Regardless of Cecelia’s reasons, it was still true that her noble privilege kept her from facing the same consequences as someone outside the Citadel. Lore had known more than one person who’d taken poison because of illness, needing it to extend their lives so they could take care of loved ones. There were some deathdealers who only served such clients—Val and Mari did their running for free, charging the other deathdealers more to make up for it.

But when those clients were caught, no one cared about their reasons. It was the Burnt Isles for them all.

And apparently, the poison they paid so dearly for went into noble cups instead.

The hard shine in Gabe’s eye said he followed Lore’s thoughts. He dropped his mallet and crossed his arms. “There’s many people outside the Citadel who are scared for the same reason,” he said. “But they certainly can’t walk around with a flask of belladonna tea.”

“I’m not saying it’s right,” Alie said softly. “How she gets it certainly isn’t right. But I understand why she takes it. I understand being afraid of death, wanting to do whatever you can to make sure it doesn’t find you before you’re ready.”

Bastian said nothing, leaning on his mallet, a thoughtful crease to his brow.

“I should go, too,” Alie said after a moment. She pointed at Lore as she walked backward, toward the Citadel. “You promised to practice, don’t forget! I’ll see you at tea, if not before!”

“See you then.” Lore waved and managed a smile.

Then it was her, and Gabe, and Bastian, all alone on the quiet green. Silence settled between them like mortar between bricks, more impossible to break the longer they left it.

They didn’t have to. A servant walked timidly up to them, holding an envelope between thin white fingers. His eyes flicked nervously to Bastian, then away, as if deliberating whether he could complete his given task with the Sun Prince around. He decided he could, and handed the envelope to Lore, apparently the least intimidating of the three of them, and hurriedly walked away.

Remaut, the envelope said. In thick calligraphy, this time, not Alie’s swirling lettering.

She looked up at Gabe, shook the envelope between two fingers. “Three guesses.”

“I only need one,” Bastian said brightly.

Gabe ignored him as he took the envelope, tore it open. His one eye scanned the paper quickly before darting to Lore. “August. In the throne room, at our earliest convenience.”

“Any chance our earliest convenience can be after a nap?”

“In my experience with my father, earliest convenience means ‘get your ass here as soon as possible.’” Bastian flipped the mallet over his shoulder and ambled away. “Have a good time, can’t wait to hear all about it!”

The bloodcoats at the throne room’s golden double doors pushed them inward—more were present than there had been previously, to make sure no one walked in on this conversation. Lore and Gabriel strode in to stand before the Sainted King and hoped he didn’t ask too many hard questions.

August looked as ill rested as they did. His customary dark clothes, while still fine, were rumpled, as if he’d worn them all night. His dark eyes were glassy, his face haggard, and he didn’t wear his crown. He sat forward on the iron throne, the bars on the floor crashing up against its base like waves to a ship’s hull, elbows on his knees and hands clasped before his mouth. He didn’t look up when they came in.

Next to the throne, Anton stood, white robes similarly rumpled. The Priest Exalted inclined his head as Gabe and Lore approached the throne. Tired lines etched around his unscarred eye.

Neither Arceneaux brother looked like they’d slept much. It made unease drift ghostly fingers over the back of Lore’s neck.

“You accompanied my son out of the walls the other night.” August looked up, sighed. “I’m impressed. You managed to weasel your way into Bastian’s good graces with ruthless efficiency.”

The side of Anton’s mouth twitched up, a quick, pleased smile that he immediately dropped.

Beside her, Gabe stood rock-still, tension coiling him into a monk-shaped knot. She stood on the side of his missing eye, so she couldn’t see where he was looking, but his chin kept slightly angling in Anton’s direction.

Lore swallowed.

Bastian had it wrong. Gabe’s loyalty wasn’t really to the Church, or to Apollius. It was to Anton, the man who’d stepped in when his father died, the man who’d given him a purpose and a means to earn back his honor. Who’d taken the worst moment of Gabe’s life and made it seem like a blessing.

And Lore was asking him to lie.

She thought of that connection she felt to him, the instant familiarity that made it seem as if they’d known each other far longer than they had. He’d given no indication that he felt the same thing, but gods dead and dying, she hoped he did, and hoped it was enough for him to follow her lead.

“Did you learn anything?” August asked, sitting back in his throne. “Did he let anything slip?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Lore said smoothly. “He took us to the docks, to a boxing ring. He lost.”

“A disappointment in every way,” August muttered.

“People rise to the heights that are expected of them,” Anton said. “And you have never made a secret of how little you think of your son.”

The King stared at the Priest Exalted, nearly identical stern expressions on their faces, the same muscle feathering in two jaws. Neither of them moved, but violence hung close in the vast room, as if Lore and Gabe had entered in the middle of an argument only stopped by formality.

Lore shifted back and forth on her feet.

Anton turned to her, dismissing his brother. “And did Bastian do anything… strange?”

Lore managed to wrestle her surprised expression into something that might pass for confused, even as the memory of trying to channel Mortem and failing raced to the forefront of her mind. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

The Priest Exalted sighed. “In the boxing ring,” he said slowly, “did he do anything that seemed odd to you?”

“No,” Lore said, shaking her head. “He just got thrashed.”

A shadow passed over August’s face. He glanced at his brother, but the Priest Exalted didn’t match the look. He just nodded thoughtfully.

Silence fell.

“You’re doing well,” Anton said after a length of uncomfortable quiet. “You’ve managed to work your way into Bastian’s circle, which is exactly what we asked you to do.” He slid a glance toward the throne. “We are confident that we will see the necessary results in time.”

Next to her, Gabe was still and silent, his face pale, his mouth a flat line. The only sign that the praise discomfited him was a slight tremble in his hand, and he quelled it by pressing his candle-inked palm flat against his leg.

Their tableau was interrupted by the throne room doors slamming open. Malcolm rushed in, breathing ragged, dark eyes wide, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Leak,” he gasped, hands on his knees. “Mortem leak. Southeast Ward. A big one.”